


Blow a Kiss for the Camera

by altmodes



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, Fingerfucking, Fisting, Light Dom/sub, Married Sex, NSFW, Other, Porn Video, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Video, Video Cameras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-14 21:49:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8030071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altmodes/pseuds/altmodes
Summary: Rewind and Chromedome make (yet another) home movie, with an imaginary(?) audience.





	Blow a Kiss for the Camera

“Wider.”

Chromedome shudders. His vocalizer is almost silent, except for the faint crackle of static-- or is that his body force-venting heat?

Rewind pushes his fingers deeper into Chromedome’s valve when he doesn’t move, curling them into the sensitive mesh lining. “I said spread ‘em wider, Domey.”

That gets his attention. His legs heave jerkily to either side, all narrow plates and knee joints and right angles, and with this view from Rewind’s facecam-- practically right up _against_ his valve-- perspective makes the sheer size of Chromedome and the splay of his legs look like the wingspan of a fighter jet. Rewind quiets a laugh still inside his vocalizer.

Chromedome’s head is tilted forward to look down at him, and Rewind can see the reflection of his headcam in his visor alongside the giddy-embarrassed flash of the internal electrical lights. Every flicker of needing and wanting is written on his body, Chromedome watching Rewind watching him, spread out like an unwrapped toy. Rewind eases his fingers in and out of Chromedome’s valve, experimenting with number, depth, speed (is it an experiment, really, after all these years? Is gravity still a theory when you know something will fall if you throw it, and how long it’ll take, and where?) and thrills in the little sensations he knows the recording can’t catch. Shivers and heat running through his valve mesh, his calipers, folding and grinding around Rewind’s hand-- the rolling churn of his engine, easy enough to pick up on the recorded audio, but more importantly those little sputters and starts his motor gives when Rewind just _twists_ a little…

His camera refocuses as Chromedome twists, arches. The algorithm automatically finds his face again a microklik later. Rewind’s voice is self-satisfied. “How’s it feel, Domey?” One of the fingers of his free hand rolls over an exterior node, firm and persistent. It’s nearly the size of his fingertip.

Chromedome’s vocalizer grinds out a moan, muffled by a sudden, visible vent of heat from the panels around his neck. Rewind trains the camera up over the span of Chromedome’s waist, stretched out like an isle, and fixes it on the fogged-up gold of his conjunx’s optical array. Primus, he’s beautiful, with or without that gloss on his metal from his own steam.

Rewind plays up his radio voice, the one he knows will turn up Chromedome’s temperature in about a klik and a half, external _and_ internal. “Speak up for our _viewers_ , Chromedome!”

Rewind thinks the sound he gets as an answer qualifies as a whimper. Chromedome is as hot and tense around his fingers as he expected, arching that long backstrut and suddenly pushing down against the hand in his valve. Rewind catches his visor dimming and snaps his fingers with a loud, metallic click. There he is, back to attention, optical contact with the camera, perfect. A star as always.

“R-Rewind,” Chromedome tries. Rewind gives an encouraging trill of his vocalizer and lets his free hand palm up around the wildly exposed joint of his inner thigh. “You-- the-- you feel,” Primus, he’s really making an effort here, Rewind thinks, listening to the static creeping up on the edge of his voice and the transfluid dripping across his fingers, “you feel _fantastic_.”

“Tell me what you want, Domey.” They both hear him, even as low as his voice is. There’s no chance that the microphone won’t pick it up so close to the source, or that it’ll miss that hungry edge to it.

“I want-- oh--” Bet he’s feeling that, Rewind thinks, rolling his knuckles along the rim of Chromedome’s valve. “Oh, fuck _me_. Use-- use your hand, please, _fuck_. Rewind-- Rewind?” Chromedome’s hand is suddenly just _there_ , grasping his cheek and neck desperate and gentle at once. His arms are really fucking long, Rewind thinks distantly. He turns to hum a kiss through his faceplate into the span of the broad palm cradling his head, and beams up at his conjunx as he works his hand into a deeper and hotter place in him.

Rewind has already taken his time to pull him apart like this, a whole precious reel of coyness and teasing disintegrating into venting and wanting and pleading like it always does. And now, with Chromedome hot like a racecar and just sitting still and _waiting_ except when his body heaves of its own accord, Rewind thinks it’s time to just finally unravel him. Denouement. Climax.

“I wanna hear you, Domey,” he says, smoothly and _almost_ cheerfully, and now a few of his fingers are rubbing quick rough circles into Chromedome’s exterior nodes and the nerve wiring underneath while the hand still buried up to the wrist in his valve moves with a precise tempo and an _unmistakable_ chorus of wet sound. The stuttering groan of Chromedome’s engines, his flaring coolant systems, his _actual_ moans over his vocalizer-- it’s hard to say where any of it ends or begins exactly, but there’s a familiar rhythm to it and it’s a song Rewind knows by heart. He quickens his hands in a way that makes Chromedome cry out, dips his face and headcam down to hum another kiss, mask against hip plating, one then another and another. (It’s wetter than Rewind realized, and when he looks up again, his faceplate is covered with transfluid. Least the camera’s clean.)

Chromedome is just noise and heat and adoring looks through a flickering visor, just on this side of delirious with practice and pacing in the way Rewind fucks him with his hand, fist and fingers curling and uncurling and bunched and splayed inside him. It’s a delicate thing, not that you’d know from the way Chromedome vents heat and grinds down onto him like he’s smelting scrap metal. He’s murmuring something but it’s lost in whatever other noise his vocalizer is making and the grumbling of his engine. Rewind wishes he could hear it.

He leans forward, until he’s pressed up against Chromedome himself, fisting him and touching him and memorizing him for the _trillionth_ time and dripping transfluid out of his _own_ fucking closed panel, and says, “I love you, Domey.” He pauses a beat, although he’s not waiting for a response, not just now. “I wanna see you overload.”

Chromedome melts just perfectly-- the way Rewind likes and the way that makes Chromedome _burn_ and want to do this again to be reminded about-- all tugging fingers at little corners of Rewind and desperate hips and streaks of fluid all over. He unspools around Rewind with one leg wrapped around him, a hand draped around most of Rewind’s back, and his interface panel a mess of record. Rewind lets his chin fall against Chromedome’s hips with a contented sound, and they just stay like that for a while.

“What were you saying,” Rewind asks, after a few minutes.

“What?”

“Before I said I love you.” _Before you blew your backstrut out_ , Rewind thinks.

“Oh,” Chromedome pauses. Rewind watches him. His whole body is covered in a satin sheen from the sheer amount of vapor he’s vented into their bunk, condensated onto both of them, no doubt, in a hyper-metallic finish. He looks golden. He looks beautiful. Not that he ever doesn’t. “No idea.”

Rewind laughs.

Chromedome waves air at him. It hits him with a hot _whoosh_. “I was busy.”

“Oh, I’ll bet you were.”

“Shut up.” There’s a pause, a few kliks. Chromedome’s tone is different, in that forever taken aback way he has that Rewind never knows what to do with. “I love you.”

Rewind hums and rubs his cheek against the hip plating. There’s a smear from where he pushed his face into the wet transfluid before, he thinks. Romantic. “Love you, too, Domey. Even if you have made a mess of the place--”

“ _Wow_ \--”


End file.
